


Laid Hands

by WhoopsOK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Angel Marriage (Supernatural), Angel/Human Relationships, Angelic Grace Bonds (Supernatural), Branding, Consensual, Consent Issues, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Marriage, Protective Castiel, Threats of Violence, Wing Kink, becasue of Michael go figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 18:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: “I’ve come to see why Castiel hasn’t finalized your marriage.”Dean is confused by that, but opens his mouth to lie out his ass anyway.Castiel beats him to it. “It’s archaic,” he snaps.“It’s tradition,” Michael says and Dean doesn’t disagree with either of them, because that clues him into what this is all about.(In which angels don’t recognize marriages that aren’t ritualistically completed.)





	Laid Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Belated Kinktober Day 21: Branding
> 
> This feels like low hanging fruit, but it wouldn’t leave me alone, so here we are. It grew a lil plot that wasn’t supposed to be there but, hey! The branding is brief and then this turns into wing kink because it be like that sometimes.
> 
>  **Consent issues:** Dean agrees and would’ve agreed regardless, but Michael does threaten them with an unpleasant alternative if he doesn’t.

Dean has never cared one way or another about the laws of the Angels of the Garrison.

Until he’d met Castiel, he hadn’t even thought about angels being different from one another at all. The falling outs that went national always seemed like familial disputes getting televised because they were celestial beings. Anything as big as a _bar fight_ involving angels could go nuclear if they weren’t careful. So yeah, he was a little under informed when he met Castiel Garrison, but he was more than inspired to learn the basics to _not_ being a speciesist asshole. So he’s got a working knowledge of _Cherubim_ and _Nephilim,_ and the _True Formers,_ and the _Archangels_ , and _Hell’s Angels_ (which seems derivative and corny, but he’s under _express_ advisement not to say anything about that). He knows they exist, understands their general structure and why they’re like street gangs on the brink of war all the damn time.

Still, he was allowed to marry _his_ Garrison angel, so the rest of that shit seemed like a mess someone else could worry about, quite honestly.

Until, of course, Castiel flies up off the couch, knife in hand, just as Michael _fucking_ Archangel—the bigwig, big brother of the entire angel species or some shit—materializes in their living room.

Dean knows enough to know a gun will do _fuck all_ , but he still feels better holding it as Castiel tears into Michael in Enochian, too quick for Dean to pick up more than a word or two. Michael seems to be waffling between patronizing and unmoved, until he says the word “ _marriage_ ” and Castiel’s eyes go smite blue.

Dean is _real_ tired of being left out of this conversation, cocks his gun more to get their attention than anything else. They both hear it, Michael’s face making the sharp shift from amused to offended.

“I think we both know—” Michael starts.

“Oh, you speak human! Great, I was starting to feel left out in my own home,” Dean chirps with a flat smile. “To what do we owe the displeasure?”

Michael narrows his eyes at him. “To the point, then,” he says and Castiel goes pale when his eyes flicker back to him. It’s enough to make Dean _hate_ this guy. “I’ve come to see why Castiel hasn’t finalized your marriage.”

Dean is confused by that, but opens his mouth to lie out his ass anyway.

Castiel beats him to it. “It’s archaic,” he snaps.

“It’s _tradition_ ,” Michael says and Dean doesn’t disagree with either of them, because that clues him into what this is all about.

“Yeah, Mikey, the whole ‘ _brand it so we know it’s yours_ ’ thing seems a little medieval,” Dean says, feeling selfishly pleased at the surprise on their faces when they turn to him. “Kinda messes up that whole _God’s Shiny New Office Building_ aesthetic you’re working on.”

Michael’s face loses its professional veneer all at once. It’s not overt hatred, but Dean gets the feeling Michael is probably more of a _True Former_ than an _Archangel_ after all. Humans and their meat suits disgust him. “You didn’t marry him in the best interest of our public image, what does it matter to you?”

“It’s him you want _mutilated!_ ” Castiel is quick to supply.

“Don’t be dramatic. Do you _not_ want him branded?” Michael says, eyes full of false sympathy. “The marriage is still easily dissolvable at this point if you have regrets, Castiel.”

In a previous life, Dean might’ve doubted in that moment. Today, wearing a wedding ring in the suburbs, thinking about adopting a dog, Dean is only annoyed and offended on Castiel’s behalf. “Not happening, pal.”

Castiel takes a pointed step back towards Dean at that. “I took the last name Winchester for a reason.”

Michael sneers at him. “ _You are still an angel, Castiel Garrison, Winchester or not,_ ” he says in Enochian, before looking to Dean dismissively. “You backed yourself into this corner by marrying him; that is nobody’s fault but your own.”

“Man, you must be fun at parties,” Dean mutters.

“If you insist,” Michael continues as though he hadn’t spoken, “on remaining with Dean in any way that will be… _permitted_ by the Host, there are only two options.”

Telling the Host to go fuck itself doesn’t seem like it’s going to do much good, even if it’s the first thing that pops to Dean’s mind, sits right on the tip of his tongue. “Which are?” he replies instead, right at the same time Castiel grabs his wrist and says, “ _No._ ”

“You brand him and claim him as a human,” Michael says, then his mouth quirks towards a rather mean smile, jeez, could the guy be more of a supervillain douche? “Or he will be made angelic.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, because he hadn’t actually known that was possible. Something inside him also braces for a fight at the way Michael says ‘ _will be made_ ’, as though Dean won’t have a say one way or another.

Castiel’s voice doesn’t shake. Everything about him goes cold and sharp, the angel blade still tight in his fist, an ever-present promise of a violent, _lethal_ refusal. “ _You will not touch him_ ,” he says, so flatly every word reads as a threat.

“He will be taken to heaven and have his soul wrought with light,” Michael explains, mostly for Dean’s benefit, but also likely to twist Castiel into a tighter knot at the thought. “The grace of _willing_ angels will make him suitable for marriage within the Host. An angel or a human charge, Castiel. It’s your choice and well past time you made it.”

“Uh, yeah, pretty sure it’s _mine_ ,” Dean corrects, “and I’m sure as hell picking the one that gets you out of our life the fastest.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Michael doesn’t move. “It will need to be witnessed.”

“You will _not_ watch,” Castiel says, appalled.

“Yeah, I’m not really an exhibitionist,” Dean tells him, then makes a considering face. “At least not enough to let my dickhead brother-in-law watch us consummate our marriage.”

Michael’s face twists in disgust. “This isn’t _sexual._ ”

“Let your husband brand you or me and my buddies are gonna pin you down and shoot our essence all over your soul in an angelic bukkake,” Dean summarizes, sucks his teeth. “Yeah, sure, buddy, keep telling yourself that.”

“Dean.” Castiel’s face doesn’t change, he doesn’t turn away from Michael, but Dean knows that voice. It’s his best attempt at not sounding desperate and horrified. Maybe it’d pass as neutral with someone else, but Dean knows him too well.

Dean waves his gun carelessly in Michael’s direction. “We’ll take dirty pictures for you. Get out.”

The look on Michael’s face is nearly enough to incinerate. Talking down to an Archangel is probably going to get him into a lot of trouble one day, but Dean will take those chances. It’s annoying how big of a presence Michael is, because as soon as he flashes out of the house, they both sag with the sudden loss of a threat keeping their backs straight.

Castiel is in Dean’s arms as soon as the gun is out of the way, the angel blade clattering to the floor. “I won’t do it,” he says against Dean’s throat.

Stroking his back, Dean tries to ease out the rest of the tension. “What’s a little charred skin between friends? I can take it.” The joke lands, but only in the sense that Castiel can spare some of his time from agonizing to look at Dean in annoyance.

“I don’t want you to _have_ to take it,” Castiel says. “You’re not a Garrison—”

“No, but I’m yours,” Dean cuts in. “I’m the _husband_ of a Garrison. I even got added to the Real House Wives of Heaven group chat.” Part of him wishes that was a joke, but Anna’s husband, Samandreil’s partner, and Douchey Gabriel’s Badass Wife make for alright if chatty company. He’s muted the thread, though, maybe they’d been trying to warn him, oops…

Castiel sighs. “ _Dean…_ ”

“I know you want this to go away,” Dean says, “We got dealt a weird hand, but not… not a _bad_ one.” Then he thinks for a moment, “I mean, it’s tradition for a reason, right? Do…?” All rituals come from _somewhere_ and he tries to find a classy way to ask what’s come to his mind _._ “Do you… feel the _urge_ to mark me?”

The unimpressed look he gets makes him shrink back a little. “Of course I feel the urge,” Castiel says and Dean is actually shocked he admitted it so easily. “But I also feel the urge to punch Gabriel when I hear his voice, I don’t go around living my life on urges.”

“Even ones that will make you feel good?” Dean asks, then can’t help his face from twisting a little. “Are you not allowed to heal it after? Is that a rule?”

Castiel stares at him, flabbergasted. “I—No, it’s not, but—” He stops when Dean takes him by the face.

“Hey, hon, look at me. You’ve got me, ok?” Dean presses his forehead to Castiel, shuts his eyes because—even after all of it—declaring their profound bond aloud still made him a little shy. “I love you. I read the _cheesiest_ speech in existence in front of all our friends, just so everyone would know I was calling dibs on you forever. If you gotta give me a sunburn to prove it to the God Squad so they stay off our backs, I’ll take that. I only want _you_ on my back.”

“You’re disgusting,” Castiel says, completely deadpan, but gives Dean a brief kiss.

Dean hums at him. “You _love_ it. How do we do this?” he asks, then lets him think, lets him pull them back down to the couch and turn off the TV.

“It will change you,” Castiel warns, “There’s more to angel marriages than just a claim.”

That gives Dean pause, but only a brief one. “How?” he asks, “Will I get a halo?”

That one makes Castiel laugh, loosens some of the tightness in his face. “Not in as many words. The brand is a side effect, not the objective. I’m going to touch your soul, so it’ll…” he clears his throat, “It will still be infused with my grace.” He looks at Dean then, “A signature that says ‘ _Castiel’s’_ , not graffiti that just says ‘ _angelic’._ I would never let them do that to you.”

Running a hand through Castiel’s perpetually messy hair, Dean soothes him. “I know you wouldn’t, Cas,” he says, “Is that all a graced soul does? Gives me a neon sign?”

Castiel shakes his head. “You’ll be more sensitive to angelic traits and presences, maybe even able to sense warding.”

 That sounds useful, he’d love to be able to sense when an archangel is about to crash into the middle of their Dr. Sexy marathon. But Dean is more stuck on the ‘traits’ part of that sentence. “I’ll be able to see your wings?” he asks, hopefully.

“Sometimes, yes,” Castiel says. “You also might hear my voice.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise. “Uh… Pretty sure I—”

“My _real_ voice, Dean. If I speak to you through the ether.”

_Oh._

“Wow. These all sound like bonuses. You could’ve sold me on this sooner.”

Castiel gives him a longsuffering look. “You say that, but that’s not even—I still want…” he stops, his lip moving like he’s bitten the inside of it. He was going to say something he genuinely wanted, didn’t feel he had a right to ask.

“Go for it,” Dean says, mostly to smirk at the sour look Castiel shoots him. “No really, I know you wouldn’t do anything nuts, I know _you._ What do you want, man? Spit it out.”

“I can also shield you from Michael and the others, but…that will hurt, too.” Castiel’s mouth twists. “I have only ever healed you.”

Dean kisses him until his mouth relaxes. “So heal me after. You know me, I can take a hit, Cas,” he says. “Let’s make it fun, even.”

“What?” Castiel says, but goes when Dean pulls him down on top of him.

“Boil the frog a bit, Cas,” Dean says, spreading his legs instinctually to let Castiel settle against him. “Get me hot before you burn me.”

They don’t stumble over this familiar territory. Whatever else may be about to happen tonight, Castiel is already a professional at winding Dean tight enough to snap with pleasure. Sex used to be a performance for Dean back in the day; the way he moved, the things he whispered, the look in his eyes, all made to be _seen._ Sometimes it still is when he gets in a mood to put on a show, but he’s well past the point of pretending in this relationship. Staying quiet used to be a talent, but he’s out of practice and Castiel is pulling all the stops. Dean can’t keep it together, panting and muttering Castiel’s name between kisses. It’s a matter of escalation, and Dean knows Castiel can do that, even on days when he’s _not_ so desperate. He gets him interested, then naked, then hot, then _begging for it._ Dean’s arousal is drooling between them as he groans, clenching down around Castiel’s cock.

Grunting, Castiel has to go still for a moment. He drags his lips along Dean’s jaw, trailing up to speak against his ear. “It’s going to hurt,” he reiterates, gripping Dean’s shoulder tightly, warningly.

“I know,” Dean says, wraps his legs tighter around Castiel’s waist, the nerves he’s been ignoring this whole time finally kicking in. “I know. Let ‘er rip.”

It does, in fact, hurt like a motherfucker.

Dean can’t help but shout when it happens, vision whiting out for a second. A blinding flash of heat that streaks like lightening out from his shoulder only to take over his insides, somehow _ricochet and crack his ribs_ , is more than enough reason to scream. It’s definitely one of the worst pains he’s ever felt, but as quick as it’s there, its slowly getting leeched away. “ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps, voice breaking.

“I know, Dean, I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers, his grace flowing smooth and soothing, _familiar_ under Dean’s skin, deep in his bones, healing away the hurt as he kisses him. “Shh, it’s over, I’ve got you.”

The pain stretches and writhes when Dean does, but the throbbing lessens in intensity. His dick is _decidedly_ disinterested in the proceedings, but as the dizzy haze of pain fades to an ache, he does feel…well, a little high. He’s gasping for breath and a little dizzy, but there’s something tingly about the feeling now. He winces, but it feels like more than just his newly singed skin is healing. He’s fine; whole, but slightly different than he was before. He shrugs with the feeling.

“Are you ok?” Castiel asks, voice tight with worry.

Dean opens his eyes, but it takes a moment for his vision to reset. When iridescent black takes over his vision, he startles before he realizes—blinking away his tears—that he _can_ see Castiel’s wings. Some of them. Sort of, anyway. It’s a little like seeing something that shouldn’t exist when you look at it straight on, an illusion he’s been made privy to, but still can’t figure out. “Holy shit.”

The concern on Castiel’s face flickers with confusion, probably at the reverence in Dean’s voice, but when he realizes what he’s looking at, the flush returns to his face all at once. “You _can_ see them.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies absently, slightly awestruck. He manages to look back into Castiel’s eyes, they look a little brighter than normal. He doesn’t mention that. “Can I touch them?”

Castiel seems to go even redder at the question and Dean notices he might still be something like hard where they’re pressed together. “You can try.”

Dean doesn’t have nearly enough self-control not to.

As it turns out, Dean can’t only vaguely feel Castiel’s wings with his hands, but is profoundly _aware_ of the fact that he’s touching them. Like the feeling of someone watching you, a sense that’s deeper than physical. Dean’s soul knows when its mate’s feathers are against his fingers. Also, there’s the matter of Castiel gasping like he’s just short of drowning, his whole body drawing tight at the touch. He croaks something in guttural Enochian, hands gripping Dean tighter on reflex. The burn under his palm is already nearly a scar, it barely smarts even as Castiel squeezes it.

“Good?” Dean asks, pressing his fingers further into the feathers until it’s almost like he’s half reaching through his wings. An alarming thought, but oh, yeah, Castiel is definitely hard again, rocking up into Dean at the sensation.

“ _Yes_ ,” Castiel pants, so Dean frees his other hand, leaves one holding onto the strong impossibility of Castiel’s wings, the other brushing worshipfully over trembling feathers. “ _Beloved,_ ” he gasps in Enochian and Dean knows that word, has heard it before. He’s never felt it like a glow in his chest, like Castiel could whisper it miles away and he’d still know he’d been called.

“I got you, honey,” Dean breathes, groaning softly when Castiel kisses him roughly. He can smile then, “Told you, Cas, you’re so good for— _oh._ ” He rocks his hips up when Castiel closes a warm hand around his cock, slowly coming back online.

There’s so much to do, now, Dean gets lost in it. He can touch Castiel’s wings, make him twitch and gasp with hands on a part of him no other human has ever touched. The grace glowing blue and vibrant in Castiel’s eyes, the way they look at him with such shock and adoration; the way Dean can _feel_ Castiel’s presence close to him, multiplied by the touch of their skin. Dean feels _electric_ and hot and so fucking good, he’s not even sure he’s using real words anymore. Regardless, Castiel has always understood his body, especially so now, and knows when he’s heading fast towards an orgasm. He presses closer, his face tucked against Dean’s throat. Dean is clinging to him, arms and legs closed tight around Castiel’s body, swaying in time with his thrusts. When the point of no return hits, Dean’s eyes water again, his hand closing on the joint between Castiel’s wing and shoulder, breathing out, “ _Beloved._ ”

It’s unclear which of those things pushes Castiel over the edge, but when Castiel cries out his voice splinters. It’s something Dean hears, but more importantly, he feels it resonating somewhere _deeper_ , in a part of himself he’s never consciously felt before. It makes his heart twist in his chest. When Dean comes, he’s pretty sure he legitimately _leaves his body_ for a terrifying and exhilarating moment before Castiel drags him back with a kiss. His wings curling in a protective cocoon around them, before relaxing, draping all around them as he lets himself rest on Dean’s chest.

“ _God,_ ” Dean gasps.

Castiel grumbles. “We’ve talked about that,” he complains sluggishly. He shudders when Dean gently pets his wings, the sensation a little less overpowering now that they’re coming down.

“Well, if I’m gonna thank your Dad for anything—”

“Please stop talking.”

Chuckling, Dean kisses Castiel’s temple and decides not to try his luck any further today.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…make your own traditions, shake a stick at father time!!


End file.
